Daffodil Downpour
by myfavoriteloser
Summary: He is nothing but an abomination. But she doesn't mind, because she's just a faker.
1. Strolling Down These City Streets

_**So I'm not sure where this came from. One minute I'm just chillin', eating Lucky Charms and watching "Guy Code," then the next, I've been writing for hours. Like…I dunno where this came from. I dun even know what this is, to be honest. But whatever; read it 'cuz you love me.**_

_**And I bet some of you are going: "Ohmygosh, she hasn't updated any of her on-going stories in forever and she's starting **__another __**one?"**_

_**Well boo you. I can do what I want. The next chapter for "Clozapine" is about a third done anyways. (It's going to be longer than the prologue.)Writing crazy Sasuke makes me sleepy. I got sleepy just thinking about it.**_

_**Oh, and as a random note on my life, I bought **__15 __**shirts for back-to-school. FIFTEEN. What's wrong with me? I don't need that many new shirts. I dun have enough room for the ones I have already. Money just burns a whole in my pocket; I swear.**_

* * *

_**Daffodil Downpour **_

_He is nothing but an abomination. But she doesn't_

_mind__, because she's just a faker._

_**Chapter One: **__Strolling Through These City Streets_

* * *

Haruno Sakura is a hopeless romantic.

She is a lot of other things too, like spoiled and rich and shallow, but those are all adjectives _other_ people use to describe her. If she ever had to describe herself, she would paint a picture of a tragic heroine forever on the search for her star-crossed lover whose identity she has yet to discover. Because really, what is life without love? Everyone needs it; everyone _craves_ it, whether they want to admit it or not.

Of course, her so called friends would probably just roll their eyes and say: "There goes princess Sakura, making a scene again." But that's okay; she doesn't really like any of them anyway. They were just part of the act: supporting actors that fought for a spot on her grand stage, vying for the coveted lead role that dangles just out of their reach. They don't like her either. She can tell by the hateful looks and overly sweet smiles and rumors from a "reliable source." She doesn't care as long as they remain in character; a superficial Queen Bee needs her superficial followers, after all.

Her quest for true love has rewarded her with the label "slut," as well. No one ever says it to her face, because she is the best actress around: the star. She hears it though, in quiet whispers behind her back and stories of her "misadventures" that she knows aren't true. She never says anything, partly because they are only making her larger than life, which is what she wants, and partly because there is a grain of truth to every lie.

She's had more boyfriends than there are crayons in those large boxes that used to come with a sharpener. In fact, if one of her ex's were to walk up and say "Hi," there was a 50-50 chance that she wouldn't remember his name. To an outsider looking in, that would make her seem like a whore that sleeps with guys and then leaves them out to dry. They don't see that with every heart she breaks, hers dies a little more, for she still hasn't found her perfect fit, and she's sure that she's running out of time.

She doesn't want to end up like her father: sad and alone and raising a kid by himself because his wife left him for his best friend. He'd never found his true love, he thought he had but he hadn't. Now he tries to nurse the pain with new cars and beautiful women; it doesn't work. Sometimes she catches him staring sadly into the distance, probably wondering why the love of his life had to turn out not being the love of his life.

These are usually the moments when she'd storm up to him, demanding money or behaving particularly bratty to take his mind off things. She can tell, as he grumbled and scowled, that he appreciates the distraction. Then one day she moved into a condo downtown, because everything was just too sad for her and she was too selfish to stay. Her father still pays for basically everything (she's only a high school student), and he drops by nearly every day with some bullshit excuse that she knows is a cover for him wanting to see her. She feels less disgusting after she notices that they're both happier when they spend time together now. She never lets herself think of what it must be like alone in that huge house.

Sakura jerks out of her musings when a drop of cold rain plops onto her nose. She nearly goes cross-eyed trying to look at it, before turning her curious gaze to the darkening sky. The clouds are grey and angry, molding into one, intimidating mass; she blinks rapidly as another drop falls onto her lashes. It isn't like in the movies, where after a few drops the sky begins weeping ridiculously. She doesn't feel anything else for a while, actually, and fairly soon she is walking again. Her gold Diplonana heels clack against the sidewalk, echoing in the silence around her. Konoha is a busy city, but the back roads are usually bare. Everyone is always in such a hurry to get places quickly that they don't realise taking the longer way and avoiding traffic is actually faster.

Her steps lead her to the city park. She isn't very surprised; she comes here often to think. It's completely lifeless, like usual. Storm or not, people in this day and age have better things to do than get fresh air or enjoy the wonders of nature. Of course, she only does things such was taking walks and watching clouds when no one else is around to see her. Catty bitches don't have those types of hobbies.

She starts down the asphalt path that loops through the entire park. She looks out over the empty space, wondering how much different the dead environment would feel if there were actually dogs chasing Frisbees and young lovers eating ice-cream cones on benches. She figures it would probably feel warm, comparable to millions of butterflies fluttering around in the atmosphere. Another drop of water suddenly smacks the top of her head, and just like the movies, it begins raining heavily a few seconds later.

Her large umbrella is already hanging halfway out of the tote on her shoulders, but she's still soaked by the time she gets the orange monstrosity open. In this moment she is glad the park is a ghost town, because the umbrella has steaming bowls of ramen on it and she'd just die if someone saw her using it. If it hadn't been a gift from that idiot Naruto, the only person in her plastic circle who may genuinely care, she would've thrown the eyesore away ages ago.

Sakura doesn't bother going home. She's drenched to the bone and as soon as she gets around people, she's going to have to start sneering and bitching until her face hurt. She isn't in the mood to be snooty at the moment. I just want to relax, she thinks. She takes a few more steps, unconsciously humming along with the pitter-patter of rain hitting her umbrella; then she stops cold.

There is a hand in the bushes up ahead.

Should she scream for help? Should she call the police? Should she check to see if the person is okay? She opts for the latter, because the hand is miscoloured and whoever it is could need immediate medical attention and everyone knows that ambulances take forever. Her leisurely pace turns into a brisk jog. (Or at least, as brisk as one can manage whilst wearing five-inch heels.) She slows down when she nears the bush, her heart ramming anxiously against her ribcage. What if she's too late? What if the person is already dead? She shivers at the prospect of seeing a corpse. The bush is tall, stopping nearly at her shoulders. She pushes back some of the branches with shaking hands.

"Oh my God!"

She trips trying to stumble backwards, landing painfully on her bum, but the action doesn't register in her mind. The umbrella flies from her hand, rolling to a stop a few yards away, and she just sits there in the wet grass, staring at the bush with wide eyes. The tote drops down beside her: forgotton. If someone were to pass by she would look completely ridiculous gaping at a seemingly normal shrub in the middle of the pouring rain. She can't bring herself to care about appearances at the moment though. Her brain is working on overdrive trying to process what she has seen. I should leave, she reasons, just act like nothing ever happened. She frowns.

"But he could die, and what if someone else finds him; what would they do?" she isn't sure if it really is a he, but he looks like one and calling him "it" seems a bit cruel. She hesitantly approaches the bush once more, hands trembling even more violently as she parts the branches for a second time.

He's still lying in the grass, nestled between the bush and the base of a tree where she left him (which is expected since he's unconscious). His skin is a greyish-violet, taunt with muscles and smoother than anything she'd ever seen. But there are bruises marring him, a few open gashes, and a gaping wound on his stomach. His lips are a dark shade purple; she figures it's their natural colouring since it matches the large star-like shape across the bridge of his nose. His wild, dark hair is splayed about his head like a pillow of shadows. (Now I'm just being dramatic, she thinks.) Her fingers itch to run through his tresses; even wet she can tell they must be soft. His cheek-bones are high, his face angular and regal. (She wonders if he's some kind of demon prince or something. If he is, she might be screwed when he wakes up.) The most striking thing about his appearance is the large wings protruding from his back and laying limply by his sides. They're shaped like the talons of a massive bird, what looks like the toes of a smaller ones hanging from them in place of feathers. Sakura finds him beautiful in a tragic, hideous way.

His clothes are rather interesting as well. He is wearing baggy black pants tucked into boot-sandal hybrids that stop about mid-calf. A purple rope is wrapped around his waist, tied in an elaborate bow that's holding a piece of dark fabric over his bottoms. The scabbard of a sword sits amongst the folds, but it's empty, and fingerless arms guards protect his forearms valiantly. He looks like he has just stepped out of the feudal era, further supporting Sakura's "prince" theory. She stares at him for a while longer, soaking in every detail of his person, before realising that it is still raining; all of the water is making him bleed out faster.

Shrugging off her jacket, she scrambles around to the other side of the bush. She kneels down next to his motionless body and lays her coat gently over him, frowning when it barely covers his shins. His breaths are coming out in short puffs; she knows he won't make it if he continues to get drenched so heavily. Then she remembers her umbrella. She hurries to retrieve it, thanking whoever's listening that it hasn't blown away. When she returns, she makes quick work of impaling the massive umbrella into the ground, successfully shielding the most of him from the rain. She hesitates for a moment, before reaching down and brushing a few strands of hair from his face.

"I'll be back." She murmurs. She wants to believe that he can hear her, that her words provide him with some sort of comfort.

She thinks it's because she's a hopeless romantic.

Sakura runs the entire way home, stopping only once to remove her heels. The security guard and receptionist are surprised when she barrels through the lobby of her condo building, soaked to the bone, shoes in her hands, and feet stained with mud. They're used to her being uppity, strutting around without a hair out of place or a wrinkle in her clothes. The security guard offers to call the authorities; she huffs in reply.

"Don't be stupid, Iruka. If I needed the police, I would've called them already. It _is _the 21st century; I _do _have a cell phone." Flicking her damp hair, she darts up the stairs to her condo. The elevator is likely to take forever, because none of the rich bastards in her building could be bothered with the exercise.

She scrambles around her home, gathering as many towels as she can find and struggling a thick comforter from the catastrophe that is her linen closet. She stubs her toe more than once in her haste, but the pain is secondary to flurry of events taking place; she hardly notices.

"Keys, keys; where the _fuck _are my keys?"

She takes the stairs by two, veering sharply to the left and heading towards the parking garage when she reaches the main lobby. She can barely see over the mound of cloths in her arms. The garage is also dark, farther obscuring her view. She curses and begins to awkwardly shift the items in her hands so she can push the button on her car remote. A few yards away to her right, the headlights on a bright red Porsche flash.

She covers every inch of material in the back seat with towels. Sure she wants to help and yeah she's in a hurry, but her Porsche is like her child; she'd be damned if she let some random demon guy bleed all over child. She tosses the leftover towels and blanket in the passenger's seat. Sliding behind the wheel sends a jolt of adrenaline coursing through her veins. It's been a while since she's had to drive herself anywhere. Bare skin connects with the gas petal; she remembers that she forgot her shoes.

The guard at the door scurries to raise it in time.

Sakura tears through the back roads. She handles her car like a toy, flinging it around curves and sliding dangerously in the rain and basically behaving like she's in a scene straight out of _Fast and Furious_. She thunders through the park because, well, why the hell not? Time is of the essence, after all. She's barely able to skid to a stop in front of the infamous bush, where his hand is still poking forlornly from behind its branches. She takes a deep breath, preparing herself for the shock of freezing rain, and dives outside. She opens the backdoor on her way to his fallen body.

He's heavy, but not as much as she thought he would be. (Or perhaps she is simply stronger than she ever gave herself credit for.) She manages to heave his dead weight into the car with only slight difficulty. She positions his body somewhat awkwardly so that he will fit, and climbs into the backseat with him, pulling the door shut behind her. Her hand fumbles around in the passenger's seat, searching blindly for the towels. She dries him off the best she can, patting herself down too, and wraps him snugly in the blanket she brought. He shifts in his slumber; she freezes, hands hovering over his body. His purple lips part and begin to form silent words she cannot understand.

"I'm sorry; I don't know what you're saying." he continues speaking. Without knowing what else to do, she touches his face. He immediately stills, eyebrows drawn like the feeling of someone else's skin is so foreign that he can't comprehend it. The thought nearly shatters her already damaged heart to believe so strongly in love, and then to gaze down at a creature that has obviously never experienced it. With one last gloomy look, she spread the driest towels over the driver's seat, climbing carefully behind the wheel. She turned on the heat. The coolness of his cheek had been a bit worrying. She decides to comeback for her umbrella some time later. Even if someone were to happen upon the gift, she doubted he or she would take it. That umbrella is straight ugly. Sakura drives more sensibly this time, conscious of the damaged cargo in the backseat. She doesn't want to jostle his injuries any more than she has to.

The real challenge comes when she has to sneak him inside. She leaves the towels in her car and after slinging his large arm around her petite shoulders, wraps the blanket around both of them. She isn't too worried about the security cameras. They're more for show than actual protection, since rich folk value their privacy. She drags his body all the way to the service elevator in the corridor directly adjacent to the parking garage. Mr. Toshida, her neighbour, pays the handyman every month to leave the key in, so he can sneak his underage prostitutes up to his condo without being caught.

"Alright," she says shifting his weight, "I don't know if you can hear me, but I'm going to need a little help when we get off. We have to get back to my place as quickly as possible, and I don't know if I can lug your heavy ass the entire way."

He doesn't reply, but when the doors open and she steps forward, he does too. His movements are sluggish. Most of his weight is bearing down on her shoulders. They manage well enough despite of this. Fairly soon he is collapsing onto her bed, and she's running hot water into a bowl for him. She returns to her room with the bowl and a rag, nervousness creeping its way back up her throat. It's highly likely that he won't appreciate some girl he doesn't know bathing him. He's covered in dirt though; she can't just _leave_ him like that, especially if he is sleeping in her bed. She approaches slowly, mentally running over what she wants to say in her head. His breathing is even now, and his body a bit more relaxed. Upon closer inspection, she notices that some of the minor cuts and bruises have healed. Even the wound on his stomach appears to be closing up. It's because he's in a stable environment, she concludes. That's probably why he regained a portion of his consciousness.

"I'm going to clean you up some before I dress your wounds. You're getting yuckiness like, everywhere." he stiffens when she first slides the warm rag down his arm, but eventually relaxes into the soothing touch. She's careful not to irritate any of his injuries, and when his upper body is finished, she gazes contemplatively down at his bottoms.

"I'm about to take your pants off so I can finish cleaning you and put them in the wash. Don't rear up and rip me to pieces or anything; that wouldn't be cool." his only reply is the slight raising of his hips so that she can take them off easier. She figures he probably doesn't really care what she does at this point; he just wants her to finish so he can rest peacefully.

"You are most definitely a guy." she murmurs, staring appreciatively down at his generous manhood with a cocked head. She hopes he didn't hear that.

His legs are completely hairless and relatively unharmed. She takes her time, occasionally brushing her fingers against them to see if his skin is as soft as it looks. She thinks it's time to stop when she begins stroking his inner-thigh with the warm cloth and he grunts, jerking his hips slightly upwards.

Sakura puts the rag into the bowl, setting them both on the nightstand beside her bed. She then gathers his clothing, and after throwing them into the washing machine with the hope that they won't be ruined, reappears with a first-aid kit clutched in her freshly sterilised hands. She does a rather decent job dressing his wounds, because once upon a time she had wanted to become a doctor. She doesn't bother to stich up his stomach since it seems to be healing quickly on its own. She just disinfects it and wraps it tightly in bandages.

She goes into the kitchen to put the first-aid kit back its drawer next to the knives, and realises that it was kind of dumb for her to bring a dangerous creature back to her home like this. No one knows he's here; the walls throughout the entire building are sound proof as well. Nobody would be the wiser if he decides to kill her once he doesn't need her anymore.

Grabbing the biggest frying pan she can find (she doesn't want to hurt him too badly after all the trouble she's been through), she returns to her room and settles into the corner farthest from the bed, determined to keep watch all night long.

..

..

..

**_This was the _**_ longest** chapter, seriously.**_

_**And it's rated M to be safe because I've already lost two stories on here.**_

_** As always, I apologise for any mistakes. Until next time, kids.**_


	2. Singing the Blues

_**I have so many art pieces to complete and so little time. My head feels like it's about to explode; legit. And they all have to be super amazing so like, I can win a bunch of ribbons. I like ribbons. Especially blue ones.**_

_**And I can't stop playing this game on Facebook called Dragon City. I'm like, obsessed with having all the dragons. Seriously.**_

_**But enough of that. Here's the next chapter of Daffodil Downpour; enjoy.**_

* * *

_**Daffodil Downpour **_

_He is nothing but an abomination. But that's _

_okay, because she's just a faker._

_**Chapter Two: **__Singing the Blues_

* * *

The next morning, Sakura accidentally hits him with the frying pan on purpose. She'd fallen asleep sometime around four am, only to be woken up by gentle nudging a few hours later. When her apple eyes snapped open to meet his eerie golden stare, she panicked and BAM: he got a face-full of cast iron.

"I'm really sorry." she apologises for the hundredth time, lightly patting his bloody, crooked nose with a rag. He simply glares, as if he's willing her to drop dead where she's standing.

"It was a total accident," she continues, "I _so_ didn't mean to bash your face. I really like your face." A sound of disapproval stirs somewhere deep within his throat, and he frowns at her.

"You have already injured me, girl. There is no need for you to patronize me as well." she fixes him with a confused stare. Had she hit him harder than she thought? What on Earth is he talking about? She decides to just ask him, because trying to figure out the answer herself leads to rather outlandish conclusions.

…Like maybe he had some weird religion that forbade the use of the letter "A," which didn't make sense, because four of the words he said had A's in them.

"What do you mean patronize?" she lowers the cloth a tilts her head: a "cutesy" gesture she adopted along with her Princess-of-the-Universe persona.

His entire countenance shifts as soon as the sentence passes her lips. An expression that could be sadness but possesses too much bitterness for her to be sure settles across his features.

"Who could possibly find _this_ face appealing?" he spits with disgust, and Sakura is momentarily stunned into silence.

She had assumed that where ever he came from, everyone looked similar to him. But if that is true, why does he seem to hate his appearance so much? Does he have some kind of genetic abnormality that sets him apart from the rest of his race? Had he been shunned because of how he looked his entire life? She feels her heart ache at the thought. He is such a tragic being. Just like a hero in an epic romance, she thinks. Then she shakes the traitorous thoughts from her head, because she can't take advantage of him like that. It would be selfish. But selfish love stories are always the best.

She has to shake her head again.

"I guess me." she says nonchalantly, tossing the bloodied rag into her empty dirty-laundry bin and digging through the first-aid kit for a bandage to keep his swollen nose in place.

He doesn't believe her. She can tell from the suspiciousness in his narrowed yellow eyes. He doesn't reply either, choosing to instead watch her dutifully tend to his injury. Sakura suddenly feels inadequate under his intense gaze. It isn't an occurrence that she is used to. People are supposed to bow at her feet, to watch in jealousy and awe as she glides by in all her flawlessness and beauty. He doesn't seem impressed by her at all. Why isn't he? What's wrong with her? Is she not acting perfect enough? Is there a hole in her character? How can she be better, so that he will like her? She can't place why his approval is so important to her, but she craves it like she has never craved anything before.

"So what's your name?" she asks, carefully placing the finishing touches on his bandage.

"Mine is Sakura." he considers her for a moment.

"..Sasuke." she feels her knees wobble and turn to jelly as his deep voice practically purrs the name.

Had he always sounded like that, or is she just imagining things?

"Well, Sasuke, we're going to have to set some ground rules." she relishes in the way his aristocratic eyebrows shoot upward.

"In case you don't remember anything from last night, I had to basically smuggle you in here like you're some kind of illegal drug. This is because my neighbours, and nearly every other human in existence, probably wouldn't take some demon prince that fell out of a swirling vortex of doom very well…at all."

From the look of surprised alarm on his face, Sakura guesses she is right about the prince thing, _and _the vortex thing. Score two for me, she thinks, smiling smugly.

"I have school tomorrow from nine in the morning to three-thirty in the afternoon. Then I have dance rehearsal until six, so I probably won't be back until around six-thirty or seven. You _cannot _leave this condo until then. For anything. At all. And don't answer the door. Like, ever."

Sasuke sits completely still on the edge of her bed, forehead crinkled as he listens intently to every word. He's used to being told what to do, she notices. He falls into the subordinate roll quickly, and with practiced ease.

"Wait," she continues, tugging at her long pink locks thoughtfully, "scratch the six-thirty or seven part. I want to stop somewhere and get you more clothes. I don't know how much my washing machine can do for yours, and they aren't exactly the latest trends here." She can see the imaginary recorder in his head rewinding and taping over the previous statement.

"…Where will I stay?" he asks finally, after her instructions are burned into his mind.

"You can keep my room," she replies with a shrug, "you're too big for the bed in the guestroom."

His frown returns.

"I cannot allow you to put yourself at a disadvantage—"

"Oh please," she interrupts, waving him off, "if it put me at a "disadvantage," then I wouldn't have offered. I'm not that generous a person."

He falls silent again, peering at her as if he can see into her soul. She hates feeling so exposed, but at the same time she wants him to keep looking at her forever; her and no one else. And even though she knows it's completely ridiculous, she can't help herself.

"You seem rather generous to me." he says, after a silence so long Sakura feels like she's drowning.

"When you found me lying injured in the mud, you provided shelter from the rain until you could come back and bring me to your home. You tended to my wounds, and are now offering to house me, despite the fact that I am a hideous monster that could very well murder you if I saw fit, all without requiring anything of me in return."

She's hoping the entire time Sasuke is speaking that he doesn't also remember her ogling at his manhood. That would be embarrassing.

"You're not hideous," she replies, "and you're not a monster just because you don't look like me."

"You are very strange." he looks at her like she's the most confusing thing he has ever seen. She only shrugs and changes the subject before they wander into territory she has purposely left unexplored.

"So is there anything specific you like to eat for breakfast? I was thinking about just going to Trof down town." he tilts his head.

"What is a _Trof_?" she looks at him, and he looks back, and they're just sitting there looking at each other until she breaks eye contact with a weary sigh. She rises, expertly returning all of the first-aid supplies to their proper places.

"I'll just get you something…a _lot_ of something. I promise you'll like it. If you don't, it's probably because you're used to eating the souls of the damned or some shit." he looks affronted.

"I do _not_ eat souls."

"Yeah, yeah; just don't devour my neighbours while I'm gone."

Sakura can feel his eyes on her as she floats around her room, gathering things she'll need for her shower. It's going to take her a while to get ready. Even though she's only going out to snag something to eat on a Sunday morning, she still has to look her best just in case she runs into someone she knows. (Or more accurately, someone that knows _of _her.) She realises that Sasuke's staring is his way of gathering and dissecting information on the current situation, so she tries to act as normal as she possibly can with an oddly attractive demon watching her every move from her bed.

She notes, shutting the door to her adjoining bathroom, that she still isn't appropriately afraid given the predicament she's gotten herself into. Sasuke most likely isn't leaving anytime soon (a small voice inside her head tacked on "if ever"). She is the only person he has in the human world, and he obviously isn't planning to return to wherever he came from. She wasn't just going to kick him out to fend for himself in unfamiliar territory either; she couldn't.

"So it looks like we'll be flatmates for a while." she murmurs, stepping into the blistering spray of the shower. A perverse sense of pleasure burns inside her at the thought. He is going to stay here. With her. Possibly for a very long time. She drags her fingers through her hair, lathering up her lilac shampoo and humming quietly to herself in bliss. She is a firm believer that washing your hair in the shower is one of the highest forms of self-pleasure.

When she finally emerges from the bathroom, dressed-to-impress and pink locks perfectly teased, Sasuke is no longer lounging on her bed. She assumes he must be familiarising himself with his new home. With a shrug, Sakura begins taking the contents out of her purse and putting them into another that matches her outfit better. Then, keys in hand and large shades resting delicately on her nose, she struts out of her room with a well-rehearsed flip of her hair. She expertly takes the stairs by two's, in spite of the five-inch heels viciously holding her feet hostage.

"I'll be back in a bit!" she calls. She can hear his grunt of acknowledgement come from what sounds like the kitchen and rolls her eyes. No matter what species, boys will be boys.

A few of her faceless neighbours are already in the elevator when she steps inside, taking up most of the space with their ridiculously flashy clothes and poufy hair. She greets them, and their reply is just as fake, but not as fake as the conversation that follows. Everyone knows no one likes anyone else. Sakura figures they all pretend for the same reason she does: appearances. They aren't very good at it though, in her opinion at least.

The fresh parking-garage security guard is understandably surprised to see her. She hardly ever uses her car for anything; she usually doesn't even come down from her flat until at least 11 on weekends. Sakura flashes him her most dazzling smile, watching in delight when he instantly turns into a sputtering mess.

"Good morning, Idate-kun."

"G-good morning S-Sakura-san!" she dances over to her car, completely aware of the dark eyes staring longingly after her.

She opens the driver's door of her cherry-red Porsche, and is hit with a peculiar odour. Her bright eyes scan over the inside of the car, taking in the damp, bloody towels with a frown.

"Bloody hell." she checks over her shoulder to make sure Idate cannot see her before gathering the dirty pieces of cloth into her arms. Fumbling to find the correct button on her remote, she is hit with a bit of nostalgia at the familiarity of it all.

She finally hits the button, and her trunk opens with a soft 'click.'

"If for some reason the rozzers decide to pull me over and search my car, they're probably going to think I killed someone." she laughs, dumping the towels unceremoniously into her trunk and slamming it shut.

The day is overcast, like the weather usually is in Konoha. Sakura really doesn't need the shades meticulously perched on her face, but she _has_ to wear them anyway, or her outfit won't be complete. She bobs her head along to a song on the radio she didn't even know she knew, patting a beat out on the steering wheel and imagining an entire dance routine to go along with it. Trof Northern Quarter isn't very far away from her flat. The last note of the melody is fading forlornly from the air when she pulls up.

She has always loved the atmosphere at Trof. It feels so cosy, and the music they play is great. She picks a table directly in the middle of things, smiling when she doesn't get any special attention. This is the only place in the world where she prefers not to be treated differently; it's her safe Haven. At the studio, there are other dancers who either worship her like the Messiah, or spend their every waking minute plotting her downfall. And she only goes to the park when she has deep thinking to do; there she isn't safe from herself. But at Trof's Northern Quarter, she is just another costumer like everyone else. Sakura comes here often enough to have the menu memorised. When the waiter approaches, she already has the order hanging from her tongue.

"One Belgium Waffles and one Royal Brekkie to go, please." he nods, scribbling the order down, and turns to leave, but she calls after him.

"Wait, wait, make that two Royal Brekkies." the waiter eyes her critically, obviously wondering who else she could be ordering for that needs _two _Royal Brekkies. In the end he just shrugs, tacking the extra meal onto the end of her order, and disappears.

Sakura leans back in her seat. She takes one deep breath, inhaling tranquillity and exhaling the turmoil currently swirling chaotically inside of her. For a brief moment she is completely at peace. She doesn't need to be perfect, or vicious, or anything, really.

Then suddenly, the spell is broken.

"Forehead, is that you?" she turns her head slowly, dread settling heavily in the pit of her stomach.

Standing a few tables away is a pretty girl with pale blonde hair pulled into a high ponytail and pupil-less, pastel blue eyes. Her companion, a brunette with dark eyes and freckles, appears incredibly plain next to her. Sakura knows the Blonde did this on purpose.

"Of course it is, Ms Piggy." she replies, flipping her slightly waved pink locks over her shoulder.

"Who else could it possibly be?" her tone is matter-of-fact and superior. She sees the smile on the Blonde's face twitch slightly, and forces down a smirk of satisfaction.

Ms Piggy, whose real name is Yamanaka Ino, approaches Sakura's table with her lackey in tow. Sakura mentally begs the cook to hurry up with her food.

"I didn't know you ate here." Ino says almost accusingly, taking it upon herself to plop down in the other empty seat and leaving the Brunette to stand awkwardly next to them.

"I wouldn't have waited until Megumi practically _dragged_ me here if I did." the Brunette frowns.

"My name is Misaki." Ino doesn't notice her, but Sakura does and just ignores it. The pink-haired girl isn't sure which is worse.

"We should totally come here and eat together sometime." Ino continues, clapping her hands together.

Sakura feels her heart stop. Her safe haven, the only place she can actually _breathe_, is slipping through her fingers.

_Nononononon—_

She wants to scream and punch and kick and threaten that _nuisance_ to never come back here or _else_.

—_onononononoNO!_

But she doesn't. Instead, she purses her lips and flips her hair again.

"Well, I suppose the food here is _okay_. And the décor is," she looks around, nose slightly crinkled, "cute, if not a little dull..."

"I agree," Ino replies immediately, also wrinkling her nose, "this looks like somewhere my _Nana _would eat." Misaki appears to be offended, but she is once again flippantly ignored. Sakura sees her waiter approaching from the corner of her eye, and feels the urge to kiss his uninterested face.

"There's my order; it looks like I'll be leaving soon."

"You're not staying?" she gives the blonde a condescending smirk

"Usually when people order take-out, they _take it out_, Ms Piggy." the Blonde's mouth twitches again. She parts her lips to speak, but the waiter interrupts her by reciting the amount of Sakura's order, while setting the bags and receipt on the table before them. The pinkette pulls a crisp fifty dollar bill from her purse.

"Keep the rest," her cherry lips curve into suggestive smile, "since I had so much fun watching you leave." He's a little thrown by her change in behaviour from the seemingly reserved girl that he first waited on, but he accepts the money graciously, and the girls watch his ego swell as he swaggers over to his next table. Sakura begins gathering her things as quickly as she can without appearing suspicious.

"So me and Mika were planning to go to the cinema later," Ino starts, "do you want to—"

"Bye, loves." Sakura sings, like she doesn't notice the blonde talking.

She also pretends she doesn't hear the whispered hiss of "Bitch" coming from her so-called best friend's mouth.

..

..

..

**_Urgh, my keyboard keeps sticking. It's seriously making me mad. _**

**_I also didn't make this chapter as long as I originally was. I cut it off early, because I thought this would be a pretty good place to end. I'm going to skip a bit for the next chapter._**

**_Sorry for any mistakes; thanks for reading._**


End file.
